Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “I have changed my mind,” Lady Margaret panted, her forehead resting against his chest. “My wishes are no longer limited to your kisses.”

  Desire rendered Marcus stupid, but he eventually parsed her words into something like sense. “What would you have of me, your ladyship?”

  She twined her arms about his neck and put her lips near his ear. “Everything. Tonight, I would have everything of you.”

  She wrapped her legs around Marcus’s hips and drew him nearer, then tucked herself so close to him his arousal had to be obvious to her.

  “Everything, Margaret?”

  “All forty verses,” she said, “and then a complete rendition of In Dulci Jubilo too.”

  In sweet rejoicing… “I know that tune,” Marcus said, stepping away to lock the door. “It has ever been one of my favorites.”

  “Then perhaps we’ll sing it more than once.”

  He vowed then and there to make sure she had cause for sweet rejoicing at least three times before they left the office.

  Meg had insisted that Lord Marcus bring nothing of duty to this stolen moment. For herself, she’d bring nothing of shame. She had conducted herself more properly as a widow than she had as a girl or a wife, and years of lonely propriety weren’t enough to appease Lucien and others like him. She had done her best as a mother, done her best for her clients, and for once—for one precious hour—she would have who and what she pleased.

  Thanks be to whatever kind powers looked after tired widows, Marcus Bannerfield was of the same mind as she was. He locked the door with a quiet, decisive snick and shrugged out of his coat.

  “The house is abed,” he said. “We will not be disturbed. Will you join me on the couch?”

  “Yes.” Though now that the adventure had begun, Meg had no idea how to proceed. The couch was well cushioned, but what did one do with one’s clothing? She had knotted off her stays in front, but she had been married long enough to know disrobing wasn’t critical to the endeavor.

  Marcus settled in the middle of the sofa and patted the place beside him. “Sweet rejoicing requires a certain proximity, Margaret.”

  She approached, then hesitated as Marcus began unbuttoning his falls. “How does one—how do we… go about this?”

  “Enthusiastically, I hope.” He took her wrist in a warm grip. “However we please. You can straddle my lap, we can find a handy place against the wall. The desk is about the right height, or we can use the couch to make the beastie with two backs.”

  She had no earthly idea what he was talking about, though straddling his lap—upon reflection—had possibilities.

  “You will think me woefully unworldly.”

  “I think your late husband woefully inconsiderate and more than a bit dull. Kiss me, Margaret.”

  Peter had been dull—honesty was not the same thing as speaking ill of the dead—and woefully inconsiderate. As inconsiderate as he’d been handsome. Exceedingly inconsiderate.

  Meg bent down and kissed her lover on the mouth. Marcus was not strikingly handsome, but he was attractive. What a pity she’d not grasped the distinction years ago.

  He brushed his thumb over the inside of her wrist. “Are you wearing drawers, Lady Margaret?”

  She was abruptly wearing a heated blush. “I am. In bitter weather, drawers are sensible.”

  “I can assure you, this office is about to grow quite warm, my lady.”

  What had that to do with—? Oh. Meg turned her back, fussed with her skirts, and stepped out of her drawers. She folded them and laid them on the desk, feeling ridiculous for doing so. What sort of merry widow folded her drawers before disporting with a willing bachelor?

  When she turned back to the couch, Marcus tossed her his cravat.

  He’d undone his falls, unbuttoned his shirt, and removed his neckcloth. The picture he made by candlelight was decadent, naughty, and male in a way that made Meg long for a bed—and for more candles.

  “Come here, Margaret, and rejoice sweetly with me.” He held out his hand, and Meg managed to straddle his lap without too much awkwardness.

  “Closer,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  By patient, stealthy degrees, Marcus kissed and caressed her until she was kissing him back, and little problems like what to do about clothing faded beneath a rising tide of pleasure. Marcus Bannerfield knew what to do with his hands, with his mouth, with soft words.

  Meg shifted closer and came up against incontrovertible evidence of masculine desire.

  “Don’t be shy,” Marcus whispered. “I want you, and I hope you want me too.”

  Shyness beat a hasty retreat as desire advanced. Meg took her courage in one hand and Marcus in the other and sank down upon him in one slow, sweet slide. The moment was like homecoming and wonder and wishes coming true, all at once.

  The physical sensations were exquisite, the emotions more complicated. This joining had a little bit of anger in it, a fist raised to all who would condemn a woman for putting her trust in the wrong man, while society regarded the man as a hero unfairly distracted from his battles.

  But the anger was faded and worn, while the gratitude—for this man, for this moment—was sincere. Affection was part of lovemaking, as was trust, generosity, courage… Meg had forgotten that, and the reminders Marcus shared with her were lovely.

  A delicate brush of his fingers along her cheek, kisses pressed to her brow, a quiet pause in the dance toward mutual gratification. Each pleasure and consideration brought both physical closeness and a closeness of the heart that Meg had been yearning for without knowing it.

  “A moment,” Marcus breathed, his hands on Meg’s hips. “Please… just… give me a moment.”

  Meg took that still moment for herself, to revel in the warmth of Marcus’s hands, the perfection of their joined bodies, the quiet and peace all around them, and the combination of circumstances that had brought them to this shared intimacy.

  Tomorrow, she would return to her chilly little rooms and her chilly little worries. She would face again the question Lucien had posed and choose between hard options. Tonight, she would marvel at the pleasure and joy to be had despite all the troubles and disappointments.

  “I want to move,” she said, giving an experimental little flex of her hips.

  “Slowly, please.”

  She went slowly, then not slowly at all, and she might have heard Marcus laughing softly, but she couldn’t be sure because her ears were roaring and her body was a conflagration of raptures and longing. He held her through it all—all three times—until she was boneless, replete, and half asleep on his shoulder.

  “Again?” he asked, moving lazily beneath her.

  “I cannot.”

  His fingers glided around the undersides of her breasts, which some helpful fellow had freed from her stays. “That’s what you said last time.”

  “Wretch.” But what a luscious, considerate wretch Marcus was. Regret threatened to steal the joy from the moment, because he was not her wretch.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Meg forced the gears of her mind to turn and realized what he was asking. “You have not found your pleasure yet.”

  “I will withdraw first.”

  She nibbled on the muscle wrapping his shoulder. “In public you exude all manner of propriety, but lock the door and you become lusty and plainspoken.”

  “The same might be said of you, Margaret, though I hope we both go on fooling the world.”

  Meg did not want to part from him, did not want to leave his embrace or embark on the fooling-the-world part, but she would fall asleep if she did not rise. With Marcus’s assistance, she gained her feet, feeling tipsy with lassitude and tenderness.

  She leaned against the desk as Marcus fished a handkerchief from his pocket and brought himself to completion in a few lazy, wanton strokes. The whole time, he looked into her eyes, never once breaking her gaze. In some way, that experience was as intimate as what had gone before and nearly as erot
ic.

  I have learned more about true intimacy in the past hour than I learned in years of marriage. The realization was a little sad, but not wholly so. Meg was in Lord Marcus Bannerfield’s debt, for making her feel desired and cherished, for showing her what marital intimacy could have been.

  The courage to seize this opportunity, to embrace this risk, had been all hers, though, and she took satisfaction from that. A lot of satisfaction.

  Marcus stood to tuck in his shirt-tails and button his falls, then he assisted Meg with her stays. While she got her drawers sorted out, he fashioned a knot for his cravat, until they were once again properly attired.

  “I feel as if I have restored order on the outside,” Meg said, holding his coat for him, “but as if I will be forever changed on the inside.”

  He left his coat unbuttoned and wrapped her in his arms. “You honor me with such honesty, Margaret.”

  His embrace was secure and dear, an unlooked-for pleasure in the coldest season of the year. The office was quiet, the fire having burned down to embers. The wind had dropped as well, and Meg left her lover’s embrace to go to the window.

  “The snow has stopped.” Moonlight shone on a wonderland of pale shadows and white drifts. “I will make my way home tomorrow.”

  Marcus’s arms encircled her. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Thank you for that.” Meg did not remind him that she’d be back to finish his decorations, and did not offer to stay. A stolen pleasure could forever be only that, and she would always treasure this one, but she wasn’t foolish enough to wish it could be more.

  “You will not recognize my house, Papa,” Marcus said, giving his eggnog a stir. “I don’t recognize the house.” A sedate, even drab dwelling had become a place of light, grace, and sweet scents. Lady Margaret had worked a special brand of holiday magic, though as far as Marcus was concerned, she’d taken the real sparkle with her when she’d departed four days ago.

  “The girls have turned it all topsy-turvy, I take it?” The marquess had a robe over his knees, despite the fact that the fire in his family parlor was—on Marcus’s orders—kept roaring, as were the fires elsewhere in the house. What mattered the cost of coal when an old man’s joints ached?

  “Emily and Amanda are settling in comfortably, and the staff does seem livelier for having children on hand.” This was not entirely true. Amanda and Emily were making the adjustment to a new home, but they asked repeatedly about when Charlotte Entwhistle could come to play with them. Then too, the staff loved the decorations.

  “Noisy business, children,” the marquess said, twitching at his lap blanket. “Eliza could make more fuss than you and Simon together.”

  “You miss him,” Marcus said, because this was the first mention Papa had made of his departed firstborn since Simon’s funeral.

  “Simon was always quite busy, always preoccupied with the estate, the children, his darling wife. I actually didn’t see that much of your brother unless you were home on leave. Then he troubled himself to look in on me more often, but that’s as it should be. Children grow up and take on the world, in their turn, and old people applaud from their armchairs.”

  The eggnog was good—rich and spicy—but the eggnog recipe Lady Margaret had given Marcus’s cook was better.

  “Will you bestir yourself to come to my open house?”

  Papa made a face. “Eliza and her socializing. I expected Ralph to do a better job of taking his wife in hand. What is the point of an open house at the holidays, I ask you? Half of Town has gone to the country, the other half has plenty of opportunity to rub shoulders during the little Season or at the clubs. The weather turns up most foul, and we demand more socializing of each other. Your mother loved the holidays, but I…”

  “You miss her too.” Why hadn’t Marcus realized that this time of year would be especially hard on a man carrying multiple griefs?

  “I miss her every day, my boy.” A slight smile appeared. “And many nights.”

  I want Lady Margaret to miss me like that, as I already miss her. Lady Margaret apparently wanted something else entirely.

  “Papa, what do you know of a Major Peter Entwhistle, son of Elijah Entwhistle?”

  “Of the Hampshire Entwhistles? Entwhistle Acres?”

  “The same.” Marcus had used military connections to find out that much.

  “Elijah is a decent sort. He’s done quite well with wool in recent years. Spent time with the Company in India and did very well for himself there too. He also did a stint in the Commons, and our paths occasionally crossed when the farm bills or tariffs were under discussion.”

  A decent sort. Did Elijah Entwhistle know that his granddaughter needed new boots? Aunt Penny had passed that fact along in the middle of a pointed lecture about men who lacked the sense God gave a head-injured goat.

  “And what of Lucien, Earl of Webberly?”

  “I don’t know him well. I have no reason to like or dislike him, but he did have the great misfortune to marry one of Piety Parmenter’s puritans.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “War is a terrible thing, but at least your years away spared you the more ridiculous gossip. Lady Ursula Upcraft, daughter of the Earl of Monteith, married John Parmenter, a younger son of the Viscount Halloway. Lady Ursula is obnoxiously Christian, if I might say that without offending the Deity. Always blessing everybody and exhorting one and all to pray about everything. Goes into near hysterics on the topic of foundlings and fallen women.”

  Papa gazed at the fire as if looking into the past. “One could not offer a common complaint to the woman—about gout, bad weather, Mad George—without her returning a sermon on suffering drawing us closer to the Almighty. Meanwhile, she was hell to work for. When Parmenter inherited the title, she got appointed to half the charitable societies in London, but never seemed to be able to locate her purse when those charities were taking donations. Parmenter—Halloway, rather—died about ten years ago, having drawn closer not to the Lord, but to the brandy bottle, poor fellow.”

  “And the Earl of Webberly married into this family?”

  “Halloway had a head for business. He left his three daughters, dubbed Parmenter’s puritans, very well dowered. Exceedingly well dowered. Nobody could blame Webberly for marrying one of them, but I doubt the man’s existence has been pleasant. In my day, a bloviating hypocrite like Lady Halloway would have been scorned for the devil’s imp that she is. Such is the power of her money these days that she regularly entertains bishops. Her daughters apparently aspire to wield the same sort of power upon their mama’s passing and are busily out-praying each other as loudly and humbly as may be.”

  The tale Papa told was far from lively, but the telling of it had put some color in his cheeks and some life in his voice.

  “And what of the Webberly daughter? Lady Margaret?” Marcus was careful to pose the question casually.

  “She married Entwhistle’s wastrel son, who got a bastard on her, then married her very nearly at the end of his father’s fowling piece. Your mother said she seemed a sweet girl, but she’d be widowed by now. She’s doubtless living quietly on remittance in some cottage of her brother’s.”

  No, she is not. “She did my holiday decorations. You must come to my open house to have a look.”

  Papa left off studying the fire to turn a keen gaze on Marcus. “She did your decorations? Whatever does that mean?”

  “You are worse than Aunt Penny. I mean exactly what I said: My home has been exquisitely decorated for the holidays by Lady Margaret Entwhistle, who charges a fee for providing that service. Her taste is impeccable and her work nothing short of beautiful.” Not as beautiful as Lady Margaret overcome by passion, but beautiful nonetheless.

  “You hired a decorator. I suppose Eliza had a hand in this nonsense?”

  “She wanted the house to present well for holiday entertaining.” That Eliza had dissembled regarding her motivations was not relevant to the present topic.

  One c
orner of Papa’s mouth kicked up. “She wanted you to pay for the entertainments and these lavish decorations, wanted your staff run off its feet. Eliza is very much her mother’s daughter, though she lacks her mama’s subtlety. I don’t suppose Penny Hennepin will attend this gathering?”

  “Aunt Penny has informed me, with no less than three thumps of her cane, that she would not miss that open house for all the rum punch in London.”

  “That is not a cane she carries, my boy, that is a royal scepter-cum-cudgel-to-the-conscience. One crosses dear Penelope at one’s peril. Has spirit, she does.”

  And she apparently had Papa’s respect, the first woman to claim that honor other than Mama.

  “Perhaps you’d be willing to escort Aunt Penny to my open house? Eliza and Hennepin will doubtless arrive early to inspect my preparations.”

  Papa’s smile faded, and the animation left his gaze. “I really have no use for the social whirl anymore, Marcus. That’s for you young people.”

  In the days since Marcus had last seen Margaret, he’d found himself frequently consulting her in memory. What would she say to such a declaration of defeat?

  “Then you abandon your granddaughters at a time when they need allies badly. Everything Amanda and Emily face these days is new and strange. Their nursery staff from Sussex has abandoned them, they have no friends in the area, most of their treasured possessions remain back at Innisborough Hall. They are grieving as we are, Papa, with only my clumsy efforts to comfort them.”

  And Aunt Penny’s. She’d called twice in the past week, bringing books and privately threatening Marcus to find the girls a puppy.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage well enough. Keep them warm and fed, praise any schoolroom effort made in good faith, chide them away from selfish thinking. They’ll come right.”

  “They have asked after you, asked if you are very busy in the Lords, and if you have to meet with the king.”

  Papa folded the blanket over his knees and set it aside. “A telling shot, Marcus. Worthy of your mother.”